Challange Me Not
by wreninflight
Summary: Wren is your classic Career, or seems to be. Thatcher is a mysterious District Seven tribute that she cannot seem to forget. This story is full of insane plot twists that you will never expect. Or maybe you will. Finding out is half the fun. Read and find out :D Pleeease?
1. Chapter 1: And it begins

_**This is my first fan-fic. To keep some of my own literary genius, I'm using new characters, not Cato, Katniss…Peeta. All that good junk. I'm trying to write using a unique style, though it may be too choppy for some. I'm always open to constructive criticism, and even your own ideas, should you want a character to be romanced by someone other than the person I had intended. I focus on character development, so this will be a long-term investment. I plan to update every day, even if it's a short chapter. Enjoy the story of Wren and Thatcher, and may the odds be ever in your favor. :3**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, or any of the Hunger Games related thingies my story stems off of. The characters, however, are mine.**_

**And it begins.**

"Wren Livingston of District One," I began, voice loud and clear, though slightly tinged with a nervousness that is as foreign to me as the padded floor and mirrored walls of the training room. I see my form moving out of the corner of my eye; the usually graceful movements awkward and forced. This will impress no one. An arrogant, slightly flirtatious half-smile curves my lips, giving the Gamemakers the impression that I actually care. I know why I'm here. They know why I'm here. I am here to die, to give the people of the Capitol a show they'll never forget.

It is not hesitation that slows my hand. It is not fear that forces my lightly tanned fingertips to hover just above a deadly spear's shaft. Even I do not know. Perhaps my slowness comes across as lazy arrogance. Maybe that is why the Gamemaker's attention is still on me. I close my eyes and imagine myself elsewhere. Somewhere green, where silence is the only thing weighing on my shoulders. The only sound I can hear now is my breathing; strong and steady. The movements that follow are not my own. My shoulder is arching back, the seconds that pass before the spear leaves my hand are full of power and self-assurance. With a heavy thud, the spear's head is embedded in a dummy's skull. Gasps from the Gamemaker's indicate they were unprepared for my deadliness. I do not wait for them to dismiss me; I never planned to give them the satisfaction of sending me to my doom. I thank them for their time, the half-smile still ghosting my rosebud lips. Then I leave, not bothering to retrieve the spear or look back. I am above them. I was from the moment I was reaped. My rebellious persona surprises all of them. After all, as a District One tribute, aren't I supposed to be another ass-kissing, Capitol loving Career?

My mentor is pleased. He appreciates my independence, my drive to rebel. Though, I expected nothing less. My mentor is my eldest brother, Euripides Livingston. Our last name was always something of a private joke between us. How ironic is it, to be called Living, when our sole purpose was to die? We sit to watch the reaping of other districts again. I see myself smirk boldly once my name is called. I appear much older in the video. My hair, red-brown and cropped into a stylish bob, is safely half tucked behind my ear. The gold flicks flirtatious winking within the sunlight's graces dart in and out of view behind the chocolate-brown of my irises, highlighting the lightly tanned skin I've earned from hours of training outside. My willowy form standing strong on the stage, hands gripped into loose fists at my sides as if imagining the spear that could save my life in the arena. Sudden sadness grips my heart at the faces of my family. They are not sad. They are not even happy. They haven't cared about me since the death of Emilie, the twin sister I never even knew. I wonder sometimes if she and I would have volunteered for each other, like the boy from District Seven does for his little brother. Screams and tears burst from the boy's young, tender face. It would have been a shame to kill him, anyway. I never did fancy wasting life.

District Seven's face haunts me while I sleep. Judging from the way he faced the crowd, shoulders boldly squared as if he simply faced an uncomfortable dinner with the in-laws, not an arena full of 23 bloodthirsty, murderous tributes, he knew exactly what he faced and was not daunted by it. His bravery was unlike anything I had ever seen before and I hated him for it.

"What was his name?" I mussed, curling into a tight ball around a fluffy Capitol pillow. For the life of me, I couldn't even figure out why I cared. For all I knew, he would die with my spear protruding from his gut. The thought of ending his life filled my sleep with nightmares.

When I wake, District Seven's face is the first I see. I know nothing about this boy, yet I couldn't seem to shake him. Eveevee, my tribute partner's mentor, glares begrudgingly, and I know I'm late.

"How nice of you to grace us with your presence, Livingston," she spits snidely, absentmindedly picking at a blemish on her cheek. Even Capitol women, even past victors in all their crippled pride and glory, couldn't bother to wash their face now and then. Disgust must have been written on my face, for her hand dropped to her lap. I instantly felt a pang of regret, not because I cared what this woman though of me, but because she would be getting me sponsors. She would fight to keep me alive against hell, hath and fury. Ironically, it was not because SHE cared, but because I was her ticket to all sorts of prestigious events. Eveevee made me sick. My mentor chuckles, though.

"I don't know," He mumbles, a coy smile toying with the corners of his mouth. "I've always been a huge fan of Wren's desire to please. Delightful, isn't she?" Eveevee holds her tongue, and a flush touches her cheeks. My brother, my mentor, flashes a winning smile at her and she, very quietly, agrees with him. I snort, realizing that she must like Euripides. He uses that to both his and my advantage. Both of us are above such fluff.

Breakfast was short. Eveevee had little desire to teach me how to walk in high heels. Apparently Yyvvaine, my stylist, was making my dress a little long, so I could even wear sneakers if I wanted. _Fantastic,_ I thought, rather resentfully. I should be grateful, yes, but the thought of wearing an atrocious Capital creation sent shivers down my spine.

During some spare free-time, I practice wielding axes and war-hammers. The war-hammers are very much like an axe in weight and the way it feels in my hand….although its design is unlike anything I've ever seen before. The back is a nasty spike. There are no surprises with what a tribute could do with that. The front of the hammer is blunt and speaks of danger. With enough force, it could smash bones, crack skulls. End a tribute's life with one devastating move. End MY life, should it land in the wrong hands. The breath hitches in my throat and I begin to panic. It's unreasonable, laughable, actually, because I am a Career. I have trained my entire life for this. I gave up love, a normal life. I even gave up family, and yet I am as afraid as anyone else entering this. The arrogance and bravery I walked into the training center seeps out of me, and I fall to my knees, staring blankly at the war-hammer in my hands. Gentle footsteps on the matted floor reach my ears; too heavy to be a female, too unskilled to be a Peacekeeper. They wouldn't disturb me, anyway. Not when this time was so crucial. I turn around, and staring right back at me, unsurprised yet smiling warmly, is the boy from District Seven.


	2. Justifiably confused

**Justifiably confused.**

"What are you doing here?" The words burst from my mouth before I can stop them. There's no telling how long he's been watching me, and if I'm completely honest, I don't want to know. This boy intrigues me, no doubt, but that doesn't change the fact that I'll have to kill him. It's midday, after lunch, so we're the only two in the training room. No one else can witness what happens in here, spare a few mandatory Peacekeepers. Their only job is to make sure we don't kill each other before entering the arena. That won't happen, though. It'd ruin the sport of the game. I miss the boy's response; I'm so caught up in my inner thoughts. He repeats his answer, noticing the glazed look in my eye.

"Training, same as you. What's your name?" His immediate jump to personal questions startles me, but only briefly.

"Oh really," I sneer, gently pulling away a piece of hair that had caught in my lip gloss and ignoring his question, "Because to me it looked like you were staring. I don't see a weapon in your hand." He smiles at this, only adding fuel to the fire. My scowl deepens. Why is this boy so happy? He does know how this game is played, doesn't he?

"That's because you're holding it." The District Seven tribute gestures to the axe lying in my lap underneath the war-hammer. I blush, stupidly, and hand the still warm handle to him.

"My apologies…" I murmur, slightly embarrassed. "My name is Wren, "I add, toying absentmindedly with the war-hammer's deadly spike. The tip pricks my finger and a drop of scarlet blood blossoms from the tiny hole in my skin. I stare at it, transfixed by the sight of my own blood. _I wonder what I'll look like covered in it, _I wonder, frowning at the microscopic wound.

He shrugs as if the entire exchange never bothered him in the least. "I'm Thatcher. Call me Thatch. Everyone does." Thatcher says simply, shrugging off the uncomfortable awkwardness in the air. As if being unafraid of this entire process isn't intimidating enough, Thatcher takes the axe from my hand and wields it about his body, moving around with blinding speed. The axe flies out of his open hand, nestling into the chest of a dummy approximately 20 feet away from us with a soft thump. I don't understand it. Not only is he getting all up close and personal with me, expressing a friendliness that could land one of my spears in his back, but he's exposed his greatest strengths with one action. My mouth hangs open and I am stunned. Thatcher turns to me with his usual warm smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. In that moment, I know that he knows, too. This is temporary. In just under a week, we'll be fighting to the death and only one of us will make it out alive.

Realizing this makes me think. I watch Thatcher as he turns from me, figuring I won't say anything else. His body is what you'd expect from a young adult that's worked with lumber nearly all his life, but my eyes cannot help but wander from his broad, well muscled shoulders down to his feet which stand with confidence even I envy. He does not notice. Instead, Thatcher continued about the sparsely populated training room, wielding about certain weapons he is unfamiliar with in a klutzy fashion. Clearly he has never touched a spear before, or a bow and arrow, or a sword. I smirk, allowing the Capitol's version of a war-hammer to tumble from my lap onto the floor with a dull thud.

"So what's your angle?" I question, breaking the heavy silence. He laughs and turns to me, a flirtatious curve to his lips. A quiet bubbling stirs within the depths of my stomach. I find it unnerving and downright irritating. I should be feeling nothing. Within under a week, I'll be killing this boy, or trying to. I should WANT to try to, but all I feel is empty.

"I'm clearly your knight in shining armor, Career. You won't even outlast those pitiful District Two tributes at the rate you're going." Thatcher saw my near panic attack and his voice has taken on an unusual sneer. In that moment…I know what he really thinks of me. I'm just another murderer of children. It stings, and once again, I hate him. I hate him so much that my entire body freezes solid, starting from the bubbling in my stomach, creating an unfeeling monster. He wants a murderer of children? He wants me to be the classic Career? Fine. I hope he knows I'll be hunting him first, and I'll do so at night when no one can help him.

With several clear-cut strides, I'm back to the spear station. It's about twenty five feet away from Thatcher; a distance I've never attempted. Laughter still reaches his eyes and gloatingly tickles his tongue. My chocolate-brown eyes focus on a spot near his head and with one fluid motion, a deadly spear with a golden shaft slices past his arrogant face, embedding itself in the wall behind him. Thatcher's eyes widen, and his mouth closes in a taut, grim line. I have finally gotten to him, finally broken though his impenetrable arrogance, and all it took was a spear.

"Know this, District Seven," I speak quietly, heading back in his direction. For whatever reason, I am not very angry with him. Just honest. "And know this well. While you've played with your woodland friends for the past seventeen years, I've spent every day and night training to kill someone like you. If you honestly think I'm a damsel in distress, you might as well count yourself among the dead." Each word draws me closer until we are only several inches apart. Our breath mingles within the air; he smells of mint and pine. I am furious; my hand clings to the spear shaft still quivering in the wall. I discover my anger is passion, and it frightens me more than his hardened expression. The silence concreted between us won't easily dissipate with simple small talk, so I leave. Eveevee and Euripides ignore me when I reach my floor. Interviews are in three days, and there simply isn't anything to say.

_**Alright, so this isn't my best chapter yet. I wrote it with some serious writers block (lol), so I apologize. Seriously, no reviews yet? Has anyone even read my story? C'mon guys, you're breakin' my heart **_


	3. I'm going to die

**I'm going to die.**

It's my first thought once my training score pops up on the screen. There must be a mistake; this has to be a fluke. No Career in 65 Hunger Games has ever received a score as low as mine. Already, I can feel my sponsors turning away with disgust, my family back home saying they were right about me all along. My training was a waste! I've brought shame to my district. Even Euripides won't spare a glance at me. His face has turned to stone, body unmoving, as if he cannot believe it himself.

Five. The Gamemakers gave me a five.

Orion, my male counterpart, receives a 10. The tributes from two get a 9 and an 8. Both tributes from District Three received 4's, as to be expected. They barely moved during training. Four, Five, Six, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven and Twelve pass without my notice. I'd kick myself for it later. It's never a good idea to zone out during the training scores. I can only hope Quinn Winthrop, the horrendous woman that'll be interviewing each tribute, re-mentions them later. Thatcher receives an 8, his female counterpart a 6. I can't believe it. An outer-district lumberjack scored higher than a CAREER. I can't stand to watch the rest of this, I can't bear the shame. The Gamemakers gave me a five…

Yyvvaine, my stylist, smiles at me with pity while repositioning my hair. It waves teasingly, framing my face well.

"You look simply dashing, darling." She coos, planting a sticky, clear lip-glossed kiss on my cheek. I try my best to return her smile, but my face won't obey. Come to think of it, my entire body seemed locked in place, each joint fighting to remain frighteningly still as if it'd make me disappear. If I disappeared, I wouldn't have to face the games. Instantly, I'm angry with myself. I am a Career. A District One Career, and I am ready for this. I'm ready for this.

"Let's make way for Wren Livingston, District One's beautiful female tribute!" Ceasar Flickerman's voice trills through the air as I'm pushed forward by Euripides. He does not speak to me; he hasn't since my horrible training score was announced. I gracefully glide across the stage to shake Ceasar's hand, poised on the balls of my feet with my unused arm slightly extended as if I mean to fly right off the stage. He smiles encouragingly at me, bemused by my expressionless face.

"Please, darling," Ceaser gestures to one of two soft chairs on the stage with a pale hand, "sit." I regard his invitation with mild interest and accept, plastering a plastic smile on my mouth. The tone of his skin worries me; everyone knows Ceaser's appearance has something to do with the arena every year. "So, how about that five? It's a strange score for a Career…unless you aren't one." I know Ceasar does not mean to be taunting, but the simple implication that I am not worthy to be a Career within his words immediately strikes a fire within me. It blazes behind my eyes, causing Ceasar to lean back, a wary smile playing across his ruined mouth.

"I don't know how I received such a low score," my voice is silky and undeniably smooth. Euripides, Eveevee and Yyvvaine decided my angle was 'charming', since I am too hostile and boring to pull off dangerous or sexy. "All I know is it has nothing to do with my performance in the arena. Make no mistake; your winner will be from District One this year." I smile teasingly at the audience, winking my left eye in a flirtatious manner that comes across as awkward and unplanned. Their pleased laughter makes me want to leap off the stage and kill every single one of them. They came to watch me die, and are sure I will. No Career has ever gotten a five before. Ceasar claps my shoulder encouragingly, laughter booming from his mouth.

"Of course, my dear Wren. Tell me, is there a special man back home awaiting your return?" I must repress a snort of indignation. Of COURSE he asks about romance. He always does, year after year. It infuriates me. I want to kill him, too, in that moment, but in order to regain any sponsors and survive, I must play along.

I twirl a strand of reddish-brown hair around my finger, flashing a white toothed smile at the sickly pale man. "Of course, my dear Ceasar," I mimic, the audience whooping along as if I've included them in some private joke. "But there are too many to count! I could never pick just one handsome man out of that entire audience!" My right hand stretches out, pointing randomly into the audience. A young man with zebra striped skin and bright azure hair blushes deeply red, wiggling his fingers back at me. One sponsor down, many more to go. Ceasar's and my playful banter continues for the rest of my interview. He attempts to ask about home, and I cheekily avoid answering. The truth is, I seriously doubt I'll have a home to go back to. The buzzer sounds, and Ceasar kisses my cheek. From the expressions on Euripides' and Eveevee's faces, I've done something right.

Thatcher's interview, with all his cheek and charm, is not nearly as successful as mine. The banter exchanged between himself and Ceaser is more awkward than my unplanned flirtation, and despite my pride and self control, I cannot resist a laugh. It's a high, mocking trill that can surely be heard from the stage. Every tribute around me is silent; my laughter becomes all the more taunting. Thatcher glares at me from the stage, only broadening my grin. My cocky smile only lasts for a moment because the next image shooting through my brain is a bloodied Thatcher with a spear embedded in his gut. Acid bubbles up my throat from my stomach and I fear I'll be sick.

"Excuse me, excuse me…" I mutter, desperately trying to push the tributes and peacekeepers out of my way. They do not budge, and I panic further. With anger that rives my outburst in the training room with Thatcher, I growl, clawing my way out of the tight circle of laughing eyes and rock-solid bodies. I barely make it to the bathroom outside the interview room before rich Capitol food wins the war with my determination. I'm curled around a toilet, clutching my middle, when I hear Ceaser calling the female tribute from 10. I've obviously been in here too long, bathing in my humiliation. No sponsors will want to support a tribute that throws up after an interview, ESPECIALLY a Career. I should know better, I should do and be better than this. Tears brim in my eyes, threatening to pool over as a sob hitches in my throat. I press both palms into my eyes, allowing the wetness to trickle down my cheek onto the long, forest green dress Yyvvaine placed me in. Surely, it will stain and she'll punish me for it. The thought of her cheeks red with anger over something as stupid as a DRESS makes me laugh, and I'm thanking anything anyone anywhere holds sacred that I am alone.

"I know you're in there, Wren." _What the hell?_ I hiss inwardly, narrowing both eyes in the direction of Thatcher's voice. For one, this is a ladies room, for crying out loud! His tone is comforting, sickly comforting, as if he pities me for my…incident. The fiery anger resurfaces as I launch myself from the stall, firsts balled at my sides and shoulders hunched with the weight of my fury. Thatcher simply watches me, unaffected by the black anger rolling from my body in hot waves. Both of his hands remain in his pockets and he slouches in a casual manner.

"I just…I just wanted to check and see if you were okay." He seems reproachful, shy, even. Well he should be! He's in the bloody ladies room, and we have NO business talking to each other! Another sob threatens to rack through my chest and I curse quietly, resulting in one of Thatcher's eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Why do you even care, Thatch?" I sniff, anger gone. I don't even have a chance to wipe away the tears before he is near me. Correction, in front of me, his body so close I can feel his chest press up against mine. My mouth hangs open, lips pursed in a surprised O. His eyes flicker to my mouth, and I can see the hunger in them. The same hunger I've felt growing from the moment I saw the reaping. I think he's going to kiss me, and…I seriously doubt I'll stop him. He doesn't kiss me. Instead, his strong arms wrap around my upper body, holding me close. He whispers comforting words in my ear, breath tickling my neck. Both of my fists are curled at his chest, slightly taut as I resist the urge to…to what? Fight him? Push him away? Doubtful. If anything, I want him closer.

A breathy sigh finds its way out of my mouth, and Thatcher stiffens. Suddenly, he is gone. He left as quickly and quietly as he came, leaving me empty and sobbing, just as I was before.

He was right. I am going to die in the games.


End file.
